The Importance of Consultation
by Momerath
Summary: Sherlock Holmes liked to say that he invented the profession of consulting detective. That wasn't true. Detective Inspector Lestrade had invented it for him. Friendship. Spoilers for The Great Game and up to the Reichenbach Fall.
1. Chapter 1

**The Importance of Consultation **

Post The Great Game.

My first Sherlock fanfic. Because I just had the DVDs bought for me. And I'm in love with Lestrade. I'm REALLY new to the fandom (like, this week) so not sure it does it justice, but thought I'd put it up anyway. Please be gentle.

Nothing belongs to me, obviously.

Friendship. You'd need VERY strong slash goggles on to see anything else, but if you have them, feel free to wear them.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sherlock Holmes liked to say that he invented the profession of consulting detective.

That wasn't true.

Detective Inspector Lestrade had invented it, one rainy afternoon on a building site in Battersea, when Donovan's incessant stream of barely-concealed bitter insecurity resulted in her repeated question: "what is that freakshow doing here?"

"He's here as a consultant," Lestrade had snapped, ankle deep in mud and cold to the bone. Consultant was one of those words that meant everything and nothing. Donovan was of a generation that liked words like 'consultant'. It was words like that, Lestrade believed, that might mean he could get away with having a junkie at a crime scene.

"A consultant _what_?" whined Donovan.

"Detective," he'd said, almost at random. "What do you think? What are we doing here? We're detecting. _He's _a consulting detective."

And Sherlock had looked up, eyes shining. He liked that, Lestrade knew. He liked the idea of a consulting detective. He said so later that day, back at the station. "We're still not paying you," Lestrade informed him, hastily. And then as Sherlock left, he realised the new leverage he had, and he added, "consulting detectives shouldn't be high, Sherlock."

"I'm not high."

"No, not at the moment. But I mean _ever_."

"And DI's shouldn't drink," replied Sherlock. The sticks they used to beat each other with. That's what it used to be like.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

DI Lestrade is on his way home. Three hours of form-filling, all these crimes solved require hefty paperwork, especially when one is trying to be circumspect about how exactly they were solved. Lestrade would actually prefer to assign credit to where credit is due, if only to cut down on the brainpower required for filling out the forms, but Sherlock is insistent. It is part of The Deal. Sherlock doesn't want any credit. Well, not from a faceless multitude, anyway. Sherlock adores face-to-face credit, he loves nothing more than Donovan, Anderson, Lestrade and John gaping in amazement and disbelief at his brilliance. But from the higher ups or the press, he isn't interested. And respect from criminals, too. He's far more interested in a murderer being impressed by him than the Commissioner of the Met. Just last week he'd airily informed a shackled and depressed until-recently-at-large jewel thief that he was merely unlucky. "It was unfortunate for you," he'd said, "that the world's only consulting detective was on your trail."

And Lestrade had desperately wanted to say, "but that doesn't _mean _anything! I just invented it to shut Donovan up and to shut you up too, for that matter! It doesn't make you a superhero!"

But, he thinks, turning off the lights, maybe he needs to accept that's his role in these weird team. He's there to smooth Sherlock's way and make his crime-busting possible and effective in a twenty-first century judicial system. Even if it's totally unappreciated by the man in question.

Lestrade's pushing open the door from the police station when he sees her at the reception. The receptionist is staring at her suspiciously and contemptuously. He's tired, but he doesn't think for a second before calling out to her, it's automatic.

"Maisie?"

The girl turns around. She's filthy, and wet from the rain, and very, very scared. "They said you'd gone home," she said, "and I –"

"Well, I'm here," he glances at her more closely, subtly checking her out. Sober. Good. He goes over to her, subtly checking her out. Sober. Good. "What's up, Maisie?"

Sherlock calls them the Homeless Network. But they are more than that. They're his former colleagues. Maisie was in the squat where Lestrade found Sherlock five years ago. Lestrade is kind to Maisie. She's never made it out from the mess they were all in all those years ago, although she's probably come to closest. He can feel his passing colleagues' eyes lighting on them as they pass. 'Another of Lestrade's waifs and strays', they're thinking. He isn't quite sure how, but they have become his as well as Sherlock's. He had to pull strings just last week to get that damn kid with the spray can off charges _again. _But he likes being the policeman they know they can come to.

"Must be pretty bad to have you in a police station," he says, taking her arm, and manages not to flinch from the contact with her dirty coat while guiding her to the door. "You're a long way from Waterloo Bridge," he observes, giving her time to calm down. She breathes easier outside. "Come on, Maisie," he coaxes. "Is it that dealer again? Do you need –"

"It's Sherlock. He'd kill me if he knew I came here. But he's in major trouble."

"Coke?" asks Lestrade, sharply. It's always in the background. Is Sherlock doing lines again? Am I drinking again? It's a constant check. From always thinking about doing it, you always think about not doing it.

"No, no, no. He asked me earlier, to find that bloke, the tall one, the Golem," the words spill out, "and then this other guy comes to see me, to ask about Sherlock, and I tell him to get lost – it wasn't Mycroft," she adds, before Lestrade can ask. "I already report to him. I split it with Sherlock," she adds, defensively, seeing Lestrade's expression. "Anyway, I tell this guy to sod off and then he says that Sherlock Holmes will die tonight in an explosion at a swimming pool. He says it's a prophecy. That it can't be changed."

"And?" says Lestrade, as lightly as possible.

"And so I tried to get him, Sherlock I mean, but I couldn't, so I went to Steve's internet cafe, he lets me on free, and on Sherlock's website –" She hands him a creased piece of paper. _The Pool. Midnight_.

It's a cold night anyway, with the promise of more rain like icicles in the air. But Lestrade is suddenly frozen right through. He rocks back on his heels. Sherlock's arranged to meet Moriarty. He's _arranged to meet Moriarty_. The stupid bastard. That _stupid _bastard. After all these years, he _still doesn't know when he needs help._

"But I don't know which pool!" wails Maisie, even as Lestrade is on his feet and running away from her.

He gets there just in time to watch the fireball.

And he thinks, this is why we consult with each other, you bloody idiot. This is why there's two of us.

And then, not for the first time, DI Lestrade puts himself into harm's way in order to get Sherlock Holmes out of it.


	2. Chapter 2

This was meant to be a one-shot. But since I had positive reviews, and since I had the idea, and since I feel Team Scotland Yard REALLY need some love from Team Baker Street on the show, I've written some more. I'm not sure if I'll regret it. Also – when I posted this, I thought the Sherlock fandom would be quite small and quiet, since it's been so long after it went out. I was so wrong. And you're all quite brilliant.

xxxxx

Sally Donovan slams on the brakes and gets out of the car. The swimming pool is before her, on fire and missing at least part of one wall.

The DI is in there. She hasn't the slightest doubt on that subject. "Meet me at the pool," his fraught voicemail had said, "but don't, whatever you do, _don't_ go in. Direct order!" And now he isn't answering his phone.

Because clearly he knew whatever disaster had happened here was _going_ to happen. And clearly _he_ was going to go inside. Because clearly – _clearly _– clearest of all to Sally, is that the freak is involved in this somehow. The burning swimming pool and the missing DI are all the indications she needs.

Sally knows what people think of her. She knows people think she is too cold and angry, in short, she knows people think she's bitter, stroppy old cow. And maybe she is, but most of all she is loyal. She respects Lestrade enormously as a boss and she likes him very much as a man and she detests Sherlock for not valuing him in any capacity at all. So when she looks at the scene, with the DI's empty car in the foreground, she is angry as she always is, but she is also very, very, very frightened.

The sirens are in the distance. Fire engines and police backup. But they're not here now, now it's just Sally and a burning building Lestrade has _ordered _her stay out of, but there's Lestrade _in _there – if he's even alive – and her instinct says Sherlock's in there too, and if he is, then his doctor friend will be as well, and Sally's faffing around outside worrying about what to do about it. She doesn't want to disobey a direct order. She wishes there was someone to check – she doesn't want to show disrespect. But she doesn't want Lestrade to burn to death or bleed to death or do anything else to death while she's standing outside. It's that thought which gets her moving. She starts running, and it's only when she feels the heat of the fire on her face, and hears the creaking of unsteady masonry above her head that she realises she never once considered her own safety. Probably best not to start now, she decides, as she yells, "_Sir!_"

xxxxxxx

"When I get you out of here," thinks Lestrade, "I'm going to kick your arse from here into next week. I'm going make your eyes water. I'm going to make you sorry you even got out of bed this morning much less came to a fucking swimming pool in the dead of night to meet a serial killer without telling me. I'm going to teach you the lesson of your _life_..."

He follows the worst of the damage, the smoke and the smell of burning. He hasn't the slightest doubt Sherlock was at the epicentre. Sherlock, generally speaking, always is. He also hasn't the slightest doubt Sherlock is alive. He always is, even if sometimes damaged. He just hopes the doctor is as unkillable as his new friend.

"_Sherlock_!" he yells, as best he can through all the dust and smoke. He immediately regrets removing the jacket from his mouth and starts violently coughing.

He reaches the poolside. There is a bundle of clothes, the remnants of a bomb and not much else. The fires burn merrily around the edges of the water, and the reflections sparkle, otherwise it's completely dark. It's hot in here. But there's no one else here. He looks around him. There is some blood, although not enough to kill anyone. They're not here. They've left.

His phone beeps, and he reaches into his pocket. There are missed calls from his team. But most importantly there's a new text.

_There's a situation at the swimming pool requiring your attention. Moriarty has no respect for public property - SH._

He looks at the message. He hears Donovan behind him – dammit, Donovan! But of course she'd come for him – yelling his name. And suddenly a vision is conjured up before him. It is of his father, on summery evenings when Lestrade was a child, engaged in an ongoing battle with an ants' nest in the back garden. He would pour a kettle full of hot water over the nest, and then put the kettle on again. When Greg asked why, surely the job had been done, his father had explained: "you always wait a few minutes and then go back and do it again. You get the second wave that way, the wave that comes out to collect the dead and injured."

And just like that Lestrade knows he and Donovan are the second wave. He opens his mouth to _scream _at her, but it's already too late and he sees the red lights flicker on over his body moments before he hears the _crack _of a shot.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: My grandfather said the ants' nest thing. It was seriously traumatising.


	3. Chapter 3

The Importance of Consultation Chapter Three

I wrote this a hundred years ago and literally just realised I never put it up...better let than never, I guess.

xxxxx

Her phone goes, and she answers it without looking at it. It must be the back-up. She carries on stumbling through the dark, smoky corridor, arm across her mouth and nose. "I'm in the building, the DI's in here somewhere too!" she yells above the roaring of blood in her ears. It's like her entire respiratory system is on fire.

"...Donovan?" says the freak's voice, sounding even more nonplussed than usual. "Are you with Lestrade? He's ignoring me," he adds petulently.

She draws up to a stop. For a moment, _everything _seems to stop. "Where are you?"

"Somewhere in the dreary north east London suburbs on our way home. It took a while for our ears to stop ringing. And do you have any idea how hard it is to get a taxi when you're covered in blood and dirt?"

Sally stops and leans against a wall. "You're not in the swimming pool? You got out?"

"Oh," says Sherlock, clearly put out. "You know about that bit of Moriarty's handiwork, do you? I did text Lestrade. I tried to ring him in case he didn't understand, but he isn't answering."

"You prick," states Sally, in flat disbelief. She can't shout because she can't take deep enough breaths in the smoke. The fire seems to be really taking somewhere near her. It's getting hotter. "You utter fucking prick." She tells herself the tears in her eyes are brought on by the hot air and smoke, but it isn't true. She would hang up except she's too tired to move for a moment.

"Donovan," says Sherlock, pointlessly, "where are you?"

"You know everything, don't you?" she snaps.

"You're in the swimming pool," he says slowly, working it out, "and so is Lestrade." She hears John exclaim in the background, but Sherlock's tone of voice doesn't change. "Lestrade hasn't had time to respond to my message to get there, he must have already been there," he continues, analytically. "How did you know to go there?"

"The DI rang me and left a message. Before you ask, I don't know how he knows because _I can't find him_!" she's getting her voice back now, her fear and anger taking control. "Do you understand that, Sherlock? We're in a building that's just exploded and is still on fire and _I! Can't! Find! Him! _He's in here looking for you and –" she stops, the air is too hot to panic. Instead she levels her voice. She has to keep calm, she has to keep her head, she has to find the DI. She pulls herself behind some lockers, and finds a moment of cool, a second of clarity in the madness.

"Listen to me, Sherlock Holmes," she says, evenly, calmly, detached from the situation, as though it were a conversation over a boardroom table. "If we all walk away from this, there's something you need to understand. This wasn't that Moriarty bloke. This was you. If you'd shown Lestrade an ounce of the trust he shows you every day, none of this would have happened. But you didn't. You didn't talk to anyone. It's on you, Sherlock. And if – _if _– we all walk away, it's in spite of you. And it won't be down to science. It'll be down to luck. Pure, dumb luck –" As she's still speaking she hears Sherlock say with a sudden urgency, "Donovan, you need to get out of there" -

And then she hears a shot.

xxxxx

Sherlock sits silently for a few seconds, and then places the phone in his lap. "We need to turn around," he says.

"Are they okay? Why the hell are they in the swimming pool?" John demands.

"Because," says Sherlock, "Moriarty out-thought me."

John leans forward and urgently bangs on the driver's partition telling him to turn around. Sherlock considers.

"Someone told Lestrade."

"_Who_?"

"Unknown." Sherlock thinks deeply. "Someone saw my website...Maisie. We visited Maisie, we led him right to her. Moriarty let her know I was in trouble. She would try and get hold of me. I was otherwise engaged. She would check my website. She would go to Lestrade."

"She would?"

"Most certainly. And Moriarty would know this. He would have checked on Maisie, know they have a relationship of sorts, seen the various little favours Lestrade's managed to do for her. Lestrade will have taken off to the swimming pool without waiting for anyone, not even Donovan, although he _would _have told her. Donovan would have arrived there, and not waited for anyone before attempting to rescue Lestrade. And Moriarty knew it would all happen," he adds with, to John's mind, a frankly alarming awe in his tone. "Charming."

"And then what?"

"Hmm?"

"And then what?"

"I don't know."

"Yes you do." John's looking fierce. Sherlock recognises the look. It's when he's failed at some basic human thing and let John down in a capacity he had never pretended to be any good at in the first place. "You do know."

"I don't." He knows something bad just happened though. He knows Donovan just..._went._

"Is he – " begins John, swallowing, "is he going to kill them?"

"Unknown," Sherlock says, softly.

John sits back. "Why them?" he asks.

"Because they're my colleagues. Lestrade is the one in the Yard who trusts me. Lestrade makes it possible for me to do my job." And because it'll hurt, thinks Sherlock. And he's right. It will.

A silence falls.

Moriarty knew all of that, thinks Sherlock, but I did not. Not because I did not have the facts. Because I never thought about it. I never considered about Lestrade's reaction or Donovan's, I never factored them in. John's bomb was a beautiful distraction, a marvellous false denouement. Moriarty knew we'd get out of it. There wasn't enough explosive and he gave me too long to think about it. He knew it.

He knew it was only the end of the second act.

Moriarty had seen Maisie's loyalty to Sherlock, he'd seen Maisie's trust in Lestrade, he'd seen Lestrade's sense of responsibility for Sherlock, he'd seen Donovan's devotion to Lestrade, he'd _seen _it all. Moriarty had seen it, he'd understood it.

Sherlock had _observed_ it all. But he hadn't _seen_ it. He hadn't been close enough or a part of it enough.

Sherlock Holmes was so furious with himself could have beaten his head against the cab window until it bled.


	4. Chapter 4

Hey team thank you so much for the alerts and feedback – it's very heartwarming. I wrote the end of this story ages ago but never really tidied it up. Now it feels a bit disjointed to my eyes because of that, but I really wanted to get it out there and off my unfinished-story conscience.

Thank you for reading!

xxx

They say you don't hear the shot that kills you.

But how do they know?

This thought goes through Lestrade's head, as he's lying on the swimming pool tiles. He very much isn't dead.

He watches the fires, listening for another shot. His heart is pounding, pounding his blood right of his body. Should he play dead? Should he move? Should he wait for back up? But what about Donovan? Had they got her too? He can't reach his phone.

_Had _he even been shot? He begins to carefully move his fingers along his shirt. He'd been grazed alright, a chunk had come out of his shoulder, but it wasn't anything bad. How the hell had they missed? Like all Met officers, Lestrade had spent years on the streets in uniform. His 'hitting the deck' instincts must still be good. He'd begun dropping before they had got their shot. But what about now? Will he hear the shot that kills him? He leans back on the tiles, and closes his eyes, trying to stop his heart leaping out of his chest. He has to think clearly.

"You're a dead man, Sherlock," he says out loud and somehow that galvanises him to action.

Lestrade isn't a stupid man, despite what Sherlock likes to say. No one thinks he's stupid, not even, really, Sherlock. Stupider than Sherlock, maybe, but then _everyone_ is. One thing you can definitely say about Lestrade, and one thing Lestrade is going to make damn sure people still say about Lestrade, is that if you were going to shoot him, you'd better hope you kill him.

He can't lie here and await rescue. He's an officer of the Metropolitan Police and serial jokers be damned, if there's someone waving around a gun he's going to take the bastard down. He slowly starts to move, each moment waiting for the head shot. He wonders if he'll hear it, and if so if he'll have time to think 'that's me done then'. Or will it just go dark? Will he even know it's gone dark, or will he just..._stop_?

Will he hear the shot that kills him?

Why can't he stop wondering that?

In fact, he anticipates, this will be the haunting bit if he makes it out, this crawl towards the door, waiting for the bullet to the brain. This, right here, is the stuff of therapy sessions. Sherlock Holmes will finally have succeeded in sending him completely bonkers.

He wonders dimly about Donovan. He'd only heard shooters in the pool, he hadn't heard any others in the building. Were there others, or were these all of them? He wants to yell for her, but is scared to draw attention to her presence.

And then he hears a door in front of him slam. His copper instinct comes into play – stronger than adrenaline, stronger than a bullet to the shoulder, certainly stronger than smoke inhalation – and Lestrade leaps to his feet and gives chase.

He rounds into the corridor, and hears the fire door slam twice. Two villains. Lestrade pounds, ignoring his aching chest and stinging shoulder. The blood works up his legs, and suddenly Lestrade is a PC again, chasing shoplifters down Great Marlborough Street and belting after fleeing louts in Leicester Square. He hears pounding steps behind him, and knows instinctively its his sergeant. He rounds a corner, through another fire door and – oh blessed relief – they're outside, in the sports centre's small courtyard, full of maintenance equipment – and one of the suspects has faltered, Lestrade grabs him, slams him into the wall with what he considers to be reasonable force, a quick slap with a handy piece of wood on the back of the knees, and the man is on the floor, Lestrade sitting on his back. Sally slams through the door behind him, and Lestrade says, "IC1 male, that way", and she doesn't even break stride, racing across the courtyard, he hears a crash, and another dazed suspect is brought crashing to the floor. Lestrade cuffs his own suspect, turns him over, reciting the litany "You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say –" and stops. Just as Sally across the courtyard yelps with the unveilled exhiliration of someone who has unexpectedly survived a day, "sir, have you _seen _who we've nicked!"

Lestrade has. He's looking at the face of Tony Kent, youngest son of one of the old school East End gangsters, whose family still cheerfully operated a protection racket and were still purveyors of casual murders across that part of London. The Organised Crime unit had never managed to get them – their lieutenants yes, but the family, not a sausage. Sally is even now dragging over his brother Garry. They were untouchable. They never got their hands dirty. They were clever. Until today. ,

"Tony Kent, you muppet," says Lestrade, as the man in question rolls his eyes and squirms. "What the bloody hell do you think you're playing at, shooting at police officers? Have you gone mad?"

"We didn't know you were going to be police, did we?" says Tony, who doesn't much care about his words being taken down in evidence against him. He's been in the game long enough to know when the reckoning has been reached. "We thought it was only going to be that mentalist and whatever."

"That mentalist and whatever," says Sally, throwing her own Kent brother down next to Lestrade's, "are, respectively, an consultant of Scotland Yard's and a war hero, so, you know, well done, first class choice of victims, boys."

"Not our choice of victims, was it?" says Tony, "just following orders, weren't we?" and finally one of the brothers grows a brain cell, and Garry tells him to shut up.

"Organised Crime are gonna wet themselves," says Sally gleefully, as torches come closer, back-up finally having achieved the health and safety get go. "They're gonna love you, sir. Well, they're gonna hate you, obviously, but you know. Imagine once these two get talking!"

"We ain't saying nothing," says Garry.

"That's what they all say at first," Lestrade tells him, and Sally's smile is infectious. He gets up and tells her to read them their rights, such as they are for the likes of the Kents, and goes over to meet the cavalry. He smiles at the back up, he smiles and smiles, because he's alive, and it's for moments like this he's a copper, for being a proper thief-taker and knowing some bad people are put away for a while, and no need for Sherlock bloody Holmes and his computer for a brain.

By the time he gets out front, there is quite a reception party and, to his surprise, there is Sherlock, with John. As they hurry over, John takes Lestrade's shoulder and starts examining it, talking quietly and quickly to the paramedics.

"You see that, Sherlock?" says Lestrade, merrily, still drunk on exhilaration, although under John's examination his shoulder is starting to scream with pain. He's also becoming aware his sleeve is stiff with dried blood, and the adrenaline is leaving a horrible taste in his mouth. "Ran down two famous villains. _With _a gunshot wound in the shoulder." As Sally joins them, he amends, "Donovan helped, of course. Fine work, sergeant."

She's still beaming as well, although he realises she's staring curiously at Sherlock. He follows her gaze. Sherlock is uncomfortable. There's no denying it. Sherlock is nervous. It happens very, very rarely.

"Yes, but Moriarty wasn't captured," he says, fretfully, looking away from Donovan.

"Bollocks to Moriarty," says Lestrade, flinching away from the medical treatment. The adrenalin and thrill of thief-taking is wearing off from the pain and he's starting to feel more tired than he ever has in his life before. "We got the Kent brothers."

"Aye, sir," says Donovan, although her excitement is fading too and she's now staring accusingly at Sherlock.

"Moriarty – " begins Sherlock.

"We said bollocks to Moriarty," says Donovan, suddenly, aggressively. "And we _mean_ bollocks to Moriarty. Some crazy bloke yanking your chain doesn't outweigh bringing down an East End crime syndicate." Then to Lestrade's surprise she steps right up into Sherlock's face. "Do you remember what I said to you? Do you remember? Because I meant it. With bells on." Then she walks away.

But what amazes him more is the expression on Sherlock's face. He looks...chastised. By Donovan. This is unprecedented.

"Cheer up, sunbeam," he says, as breezily as he can manage with a hole in his shoulder and the sudden waves of nausea. "I know you want this Moriarty, we'll get him, don't you worry."

Sherlock looks at him blankly. "He's more dangerous than you can conceive. Look at what he did here."

"Well, no harm done this time." Lestrade says absently, as the paramedic indicates for him to go to the ambulance. The idea of lying down is suddenly the most attractive notion of the last hundred years.

"You were _shot_. Because of me. I didn't think."

Lestrade suddenly realises, with astonishment, that Sherlock is feeling...guilty. Him feeling anything at all apart from short-tempered is a revelation. "I'm fine, Sherlock, and you _think _far _too much_, you know that, whatever happened here isn't because of you not thinking, I can promise you that."

Sherlock looks at him, looks away, and mutters, "I'll talk to you when you are recovered." He walks away.

"Bloody hell, he really can't stand losing, can he?" Lestrade laughs at John.

John is still looking after Sherlock. "No, he doesn't. But this wasn't about that. He doesn't like people he cares about getting hurt because of him."

"Sherlock doesn't have people he cares about," Lestrade replies, though to his irritation he's vaguely touched John might think otherwise. "Except you. And especially not me."

"That's not true," John answers.

It's another year before Lestrade believes him.


	5. Chapter 5

So much for the one-shot. I really wanted to write a Lestrade-response fic to Reichenbach Fall and then I did and then I thought, why not just bash it onto the end of this one, as I quite like how this one went? Okay, so I was totally wrong about the end of TGG, but whatever, it doesn't affect anything else.

Thank you all for reviews/alerts, they warm my heart and I appreciate the time. It's always great to know what you think.

SPOILERS FOR REICHENBACH FALL

**ONE YEAR LATER **

Lestrade has seen this episode of _The Saint _before. Maybe only last week. Simon will rescue the girl and they'll jump out of a hotel window above badly-edited stock footage of somewhere tropical. Lestrade has been watching a lot of ITV3 recently, since his resignation. Except he doesn't really watch any of it. He thinks. He replays important scenes in his head. It's something they teach you. Replay everything. There's always something you've missed. Things happen fast. You don't notice everything the first time. Replay things. Find out what's important.

Lestrade had thought his wife was dead, back on the day it all went tits up.

He'd been in his office, leaning back in his chair, feet up, waiting for the day to end and contemplating the bloke Dimmock had just collared for bonking his friend on the head drunkenly with an umbrella, thereby killing him instantly. Lestrade was thinking about that arrest and he was thinking about the fact the Super had just called him a bloody fool in front of his team, and he was just reaching the conclusion from these two trains of thoughts that it was _just possible _his day could have been worse, and thinking, sod it, let them review every bloody case Sherlock had worked on, they wouldn't find any mistakes, Lestrade wasn't born yesterday, they were all legit, so let them do their thing and to hell with it, at least he hadn't drunkenly bonked a friend on the head and killed him. And then Sally came in. Lestrade was so lost in thought that at first he barely looked at her much less listened to her, and the suddenly he realised. She was talking to him in That Voice.

Every copper knows That Voice. It's the one you wheel out for the Friends and Family. You wheel it out so often for The Bad News that you're inhuman if you don't start imagining hearing That Voice and The Bad News yourself. Lestrade had, in a non-creepy way, imagined hearing about his wife's death a hundred times. He'd even imagined Sally telling him about it, after he had had to deliver Bad News to a former DCI of his, who the second Lestrade spoke, said in a carefully cultivated calm voice he'd probably been practicing for years, "is it my wife or my son?" Lestrade'd sat in his car afterwards and thought, if it were Judith, they'd send Sally and I, too, would know what was going on the minute she used That Voice.

So now there she was with That Voice and suddenly there was a moment of him not even grieving but panicking and wanting to shout, 'no, no, no, I didn't mean that, it wasn't a prophecy, it was a stupid daydream years ago, it wasn't meant to come true.'

And he was just about to say, in the same practised calm voice his ex-DCI had used, "it's Judith, isn't it?" when he realised Sally was concluding the Bad News Preamble with "...about Sherlock."

He was so relieved he'd had to take a moment before trusting himself to speak. His life was just coming to a screeching stop, and suddenly it was all okay again. Sherlock was Bad News in general in Sally's book, so That Voice isn't necessarily a catastrophe. He swung his legs off the desk and said breezily, "found him, did they?" Theoretically Lestrade was leading a manhunt. He was leaving the actual hunting to a different team under Sally. Lestrade didn't have the slightest wish for Sherlock to be found so let some other bugger hunt for him. He had enough paperwork to do, thanks, and some thinking about betrayal and just who had betrayed who today and also wondering what the bloody hell they were going to do with Sherlock when they did find him.

It was only when he looked back at Sally that the unthinkable dawned on him. Utilising the calm voice he'd been working on, he said carefully, "and how was he found?" They shot him, he thought, those buggers at C019. But they wouldn't have killed him, they rarely did unless the bloke made them and even Sherlock's not stupid enough to make them...

Oh Lestrade was prepared all right. Lestrade was prepared for anything.

Except for Sally saying, "he's killed himself."

Except for that.

Sitting on his sofa, _The Saint _now over and allowing old episodes of _The Professionals _to pass in front of his eyes, he still isn't prepared for it, weeks later. Shit happens, twenty years in the Met teaches you that if nothing else. But suicide. Sherlock. Never.

Never.

No, really. _Never._

If he'd ever doubted Sherlock, and he hadn't, really, but if he had – the suicide was the final straw. You get your instinct, and Lestrade's instinct is firm on this. Sherlock Holmes was not suicidal. He never had been. Shit happens, all right, and shit happened a lot around Sherlock, but that shit wasn't committing suicide.

Lestrade could spend the next twenty years watching ITV3 and zoning out completely, but he still wouldn't believe Moriarty was fake and he definitely wouldn't ever believe Sherlock committed suicide. The more episodes of _The Professionals _he watches, the more convinced he becomes. Sometimes he's thinking so deeply he doesn't even notice _Minder _has started instead. It's driving Judith insane. She wants him to find a new career. But Lestrade hasn't quite finished with his last one yet.

The main thing Lestrade is wondering is, 'what about that assassin, then?' This quandary refers to a passing remark Sally had made during her unwise and unauthorised visits. In amongst a litany of 'it's all completely fine', she'd dropped that, not seeming to notice its oddness. "The only slightly strange thing," she had said, "is Sherlock's hair was found on the body of an assassin who was shot dead just off Wigmore Street. The other boys think it was gang-related though, it was a professional looking hit, professional weapon." If it were anyone else, finding their hair on the body of a dead assassin would be considered very damned strange indeed, but Sally was too caught up in trying to make it okay to notice. In her brain, Sherlock wasn't under suspicion so nothing about the case was relevant to her main concern viz., getting Lestrade back to his desk. It's Sherlock, right? Was running her thinking. He has private cases. It doesn't mean anything.

Except it does. Not that he shot him – even Sally, for God's sake, appreciates Sherlock didn't shoot dead an international assassin with a hitman's weapon– but Lestrade has two questions. The first is, was Sherlock really working a private case in the middle of the Moriarty debacle? He strongly doubts it. The second was – how many international gangs were operating around Wigmore Street? He's no gangland expert, but he suspects not that many. Neither of those thoughts mean anything. He's resigned. He keeps thinking though... He went to see Mycroft about it. He hadn't known how to get hold of the other Holmes, who previously had always got a hold of _him. _Did you send up a kind of bat signal? In the end he posted a gnomic comment on Sherlock's blog (the comments section of which was even more wildly active than before) and lo, his Blackberry-welded assistant had shown up. Mycroft had been unsurprised by the revelation about Sherlock's hair on the assassin. "Four assassins moved into Baker Street in the days before Sherlock's death," he told Lestrade, blandly. "One of Moriarty's plans, I expect. I suppose one of them killed the opposition."

Yeah. I suppose so, thinks Lestrade. That left three assassins. Three assassins at Moriarty's disposal in London within inches of Sherlock, but he jumps to his death. Jump to your death or I'll kill you? Didn't seem a likely scenario. Not much of a threat, and Sherlock would rather have taken on the assassins anyway. Sherlock didn't commit suicide. He was made to commit suicide, which in Lestrade's book is tantamount to murder. But how? Three assassins. Those three assassins. If they weren't there to kill Sherlock, why were they there?

He feels like there's something here, somewhere, there's an edge of something, he just can't quite see the...

Judith has come in and changed the channel, and Lestrade comes to consciousness staring at the face of John Watson, doorstepped in Baker Street. Some paper had run another Sherlock Holmes story, claiming his gifts were real. Of course they were. Just of course. Lestrade knew that, instinctively. The second he'd slowed down and thought about it he'd known that. He'd known it even as he was arresting him, he'd known it would all sort out, once everything calmed down... John knows that too, but it isn't what he's saying. He's saying Sherlock was a talented fortune-teller. He's saying it with dead eyes.

The last time they'd seen each other hadn't been pleasant. It had been just after the funeral. He'd been back at Baker Street, with Mrs Hudson and John, although John was just staring at him with rage. They'd made a strange sight, these three people, the only three people who were always there for Sherlock, his only real friends. Mycroft, that girl Molly, they slid in and out maybe, the bent restaurateur who should have been locked up years ago, all those homeless network like Maisie. They all were in Sherlock's life. But when push came to shove, it was always these three people...his only real friends, Lestrade supposed, though he'd never thought about it that way before. Sherlock had a funny way of showing it, but he did have friends, he had three friends. Then John told them all what Sherlock had said, that he was a fraud, a liar, that Moriarty wasn't real. "But you already know that," John had said, directly to Lestrade. "Isn't that right?"

Mrs Hudson sobbed. Lestrade simply left the room.

The last conversation they'd had was on the doorstep, where John had followed him.

Lestrade had heard him coming, and turned to face him. His haggard, tired face was a reflection of Lestrade's own. He'd said, "I get why you're angry. But you don't think Sherlock jumped off that building because of being arrested any more than I do. And I don't think Moriarty is a lie or Sherlock's a fake any more than you do. Let the others believe it if they like, if they must. I don't believe it. Not for a second. Any more than I do he committed suicide."

"I don't either. And I _saw _him commit suicide. But I don't believe it." Then he'd looked at him, and said simply, "but Sherlock wanted us to believe it. He said, 'tell anyone who will listen'. It was his dying wish. His last words to me. It was all he wanted, as he was about to die."

Lestrade looked sightlessly down the rainy Baker Street, and said, "well, Sherlock's dead, so he can fuck off." Then he'd walked away, and that was that. The last time he'd seen Sherlock was to arrest him, the last time he'd seen John was to be blamed for Sherlock' s death.

And now here was John in his living room.

But more importantly than that something else is sliding into Lestrade's head.

Three assassins.

Three friends.

Threaten you with murder if you refuse to commit suicide and that isn't a choice at all.

Threaten to kill your three friends if you refuse to commit suicide and suddenly you might just have yourself a deal.

John's still talking, desperately miserably, loyally and painfully carrying out his friend's last wish, even as it corrodes his soul, but the wheels are turning so fast in Detective Inspector Lestrade's brain that he can't hear him anymore.


End file.
